Cherry Bombs and Black Magic

Jeb walks over to wrap his seven-year old arm around my waist, the basketball tucked beneath his other limb.

I put my hand on top of his blonde head, which is now cresting just beneath my sternum. “I don’t think I fully get the game, hon. It’s hard when we don’t have the actual lines here.”

We’re on the street with imaginary boundaries, bouncing the ball between us as Jeb attempts to teach me the game of Foursquare.

He’s a good coach, offering enthusiastic exclamations like, “You’re good! You’re almost better than me!” at even my most simple passes. He’s convincing in his encouragement and seems to have become 30 while I’ve regressed to age eight.

There are bounce moves with crafty names: Typewriter, Cherry Bomb and Black Magic.

I try my hand at several but never find my groove.

As we wrap it up and head back down the road, we walk and pass the ball between us.

“Never give up, mom. It’s fun when you get the hang of it. I was just thinking that if you learned a new game that maybe when you were with some guys your age, you could have something you could play together.”